Surgery
by equisetum
Summary: Sydney's 'conversion' to Julia while in Covenant Custody. Now complete.
1. Surgery

Disclaimer: I don't own the characters, JJ Abrams and some other lucky people do. A/N: This is a rather small study on Sydney Bristow in custody of the Covenant, right around her surgery.  
  
Surgery  
  
*  
  
The door opens and my darkness is flayed open by a blinding light. I try to keep my eyes open. Try to make sense of the flashes of light, almost painful. I feel rough hands on my arms and fight but they drag me out. A buck against the guards, struggle harder when I see the needle.  
  
Please, anything but more drugs. Don't send me back to that place.  
  
There is a sting when the needle enters. I count. One. The light dims and the faces blur. Two. I struggle to move my arms but the air has turned to honey. Three.  
  
*  
  
Pain. All I feel at first is a deep pain, not like their past torture. I open my eyes. There is an IV line attached to my left inner elbow and I'm strapped down onto a gurney.  
  
"Julia. You're awake."  
  
The old man sits in a chair at my side.  
  
"I'm not Julia."  
  
He laughs.  
  
"It doesn't matter. We still have time."  
  
His hand extends towards my face, and brushes a strand of hair back from my forehead. I cringe at the touch. I will kill you, I tell myself. You will pay.  
  
"What did you do to me?"  
  
"No harm was done."  
  
I pull at the restraints but they hold fast, and all I get is another shooting pain inside my abdomen that leaves me panting and blinking back tears.  
  
"Julia would receive morphine after this procedure."  
  
With that he stands and leaves the room.  
  
*  
  
I bite my lip until I taste blood. This pain I control. I own this pain.  
  
*  
  
They tell Julia that her appendix was taken out when she was ten. I've made it this far, I can make it longer. I'm not her yet. Julia eats well; Julia lives well. Sydney Bristow lives in a damp dark cave and is slowly starving to death.  
  
I don't know what they've done, but I know this scar is new.  
  
* 


	2. Breakthrough

Chapter 2: Breakthrough  
  
A/N: I had originally intended surgery to be a stand alone fic. But Total Vaugh Lover and Anna Sun's reviews prompted me to write a bit more. Thanks for reading!  
  
*  
  
Back in the dark. I lift up the hem of my shirt and probe the scar: thick, ridged, and tender if I press down at all. It keeps me grounded. The scar has faded a bit since the procedure, but it will not fade entirely. And as long as it is there, transecting my abdomen, I will not forget what they have done to me.  
  
Other thoughts remind me of who I am. My father: still a complete enigma aside from his fierce love for me. And Vaughn. In the dark, long after our sessions, during what I can only guess is the nighttime, I imagine his arms around me, and whispered French endearments against my ear.  
  
*  
  
"You're name is Julia Thorne."  
  
"Oh, really. Then why is it Sydney Bristow?"  
  
He lifts the lever slowly, and my body convulses with the current.  
  
*  
  
But the only way to get out of here is to become her, at least for them. And to be convincing, it has to happen slowly. I can't count the days. I feel like I have lived in the dark for years. Time crawls.  
  
Every time they throw a plate of rancid meat through the door, every time I sip the tightly rationed stale water, every time I relieve myself in the plastic bucket in the corner of my cell, I replay his words in my head. Julia Thorne lives well. Slowly I realize I will tell them anything to get out of this dank hole.  
  
*  
  
"You're name is Julia Thorne."  
  
"Oh, really. Then why is it Julie Bristow?"  
  
I pierce him with the same hard glare I give him everyday, everytime we come to this. His hand stays motionless on that lever, but his grip is slack. The corners of his mouth turn up in a smile, to himself. He reaches up to turn off the machine, and turns towards me.  
  
"Perhaps we should break for lunch, Julie. Would you care to join me?"  
  
The old man comes closer to me, within striking distance were my arms not secured to the metal at my back. I gather saliva in the back of my mouth, and when he leans in a fraction of an inch closer I spit at his face. It lands on his cheek. He wipes it away with the back of his sleeve.  
  
"I will never eat with you."  
  
"Guards! Take her back to her cell!" he yells, already heading toward the door.  
  
*  
  
The plate of succulent steak and garlic mashed potatoes is taken away before I can even scramble towards it. In its place they shove through a bowl of baked chicken pieces. Part of a breast, a whole leg, plain and dry, but fresh. I devour it, even the gristle, chew on the tendon, and crack open the bone to suck out any marrow I can. I suck on the bone long after every shred of meat is gone.  
  
*  
  
I am Sydney Bristow. I am a Bristow. I am a survivor.  
  
*  
  
I will answer to Julie. I will learn how to be Julia Thorne. I touch my scar as I curl up to sleep, trace it from left to right. And then I will make them pay.  
  
* 


	3. Smirk

A/N: Thanks so much to AnnaSun and TheUptownGirl for reviews. I love reviews! And it makes me write faster. This chapter is really short, but it's two for the wait of one. Please keep reviewing, and please don't hesitate to offer constructive criticism if you think I'm not writing Sydney properly or anything else.  
  
Ch 3 Smirk  
  
*  
  
When I became Julie Bristow, still CIA agent, they gave me food that didn't make me sick, and clean water. When I first answered to Julia Thorne, free agent for hire, stoic and emotionless in a way that Sydney never could be, they gave me an under stuffed pillow that smelled like sawdust and wet newspaper. The old man stopped ordering the guards to beat me. They also stopped groping me while dragging me to our sessions.  
  
Sessions is such a clean word.  
  
*  
  
They dip me back into the cold water. Bone cold: like an iron vise has been clamped down over my extremities. Sydney remembers Taipei, the man with the glasses, the same cold water.  
  
I have to be Julia for them. I stay calm.  
  
"Refreshing," I smile, when they bring me back up. My hands are cuffed behind my back, my wrists are bruised and tender. But I square my shoulders, toss my wet hair over my left shoulder and smirk. "Is that all you've got?"  
  
The old man is not amused. He nods to the two strong guards on either side of me. I feel their calloused fingers tighten over my biceps, and a hand comes up to grip my neck and push me back down into the water.  
  
*  
  
I curl up on my side, wet and shivering, the inadequate pillow stuffed under my head. I don't retch up the food they give me anymore. But it isn't enough. I am weak. My hipbones protrude so that it hurts to lie on my front.  
  
Vaughn spread my ashes on the beach, to the ocean. We were supposed to go to Santa Barbara. I wonder if he went anyway, stayed in the hotel with my absence beside him. I wonder if my father cried, or swallowed it all down with a smoky scotch.  
  
My face is neutral. My heart is in pieces. I sweep the mess into a small jar and hide it. I practice my smirk.  
  
* 


	4. Downers and Uppers

Chapter 4 Downers and Uppers  
  
*  
  
Bright lights, burly guards. I fight but I am weak; I feel like I haven't eaten in days. They take me to another room, with a tile floor and a drain in the center. In case it gets messy. That chair. I know what that chair means, and the IV bags on either side.  
  
All the times I've sat in that chair, it never gets any easier. They know the right interval to use so that my body never adapts to the drugs.  
  
*  
  
It's hard to summon Julia. I want to cry.  
  
*  
  
I wince as he slides the needle in my arm. My right arm. Then my left arm: another sharp, short pain. I want to rub the spot, soothe it. I wish he'd put the needle in my elbow, so I couldn't see it. I wish I could rip the damn thing out and run.  
  
Oleg is to my right, twisting the valve open. The fluid is cold and I can feel it as it runs into my wrist, and slowly moves up my arm.  
  
I struggle to keep my eyes open. Barbiturates. I can't identify the particular one they use. It doesn't matter; it won't help me to know this enemy. I fight the dark.  
  
*  
  
"I will kill you, you son of a bitch! I promise you!"  
  
I am seething, fighting against the restraints. I can't pinpoint the moment I woke up. I feel like I was already yelling, screaming, squirming against the thick canvas straps, since the moment I was born. My heart is racing, like I've had had ten too many double espressos and haven't slept in a week. Amphetamines, I tell myself. But knowledge doesn't lessen the sensation.  
  
"I will kill you! I will make you pay!"  
  
He laughs, chuckles really, amused by my efforts. I will kill him. The rage inside my mind is louder than any scream I can force out my throat. Inside I am on fire. I am exploding with it. Shaking, from the drugs, yes, but more from my rage, that threatens to consume me.  
  
He starts the drip on my right again. It takes longer this time, but the battle is a lost cause.  
  
*  
  
I come to my senses gradually this time. Still in the chair, but so comfortably numb. I think I smile. I can't tell; I can barely feel my body, as if separated from it by miles of fog.  
  
Narcotics.  
  
"Julia, your father's name was Kenneth Thorne."  
  
There are pictures on the wall, but I can't close my eyes. The lids are hold open and rewetted at regular intervals. The excess saline runs out the corners leaving tracks down my face almost like tears would.  
  
"Your two brothers, Daniel and Tom."  
  
Two tow-headed boys and a small girl laugh and run across a suburban yard, the sprinklers running. It is late summer, flowers in bloom and heat heavy in the air. A front porch, with an Adirondack chair to the left of the door.  
  
"You were the only survivor."  
  
A flash of orange flames.  
  
"Confirmation at the Old Souls Church."  
  
Gothic architecture. Gray stone. Then the same girl in a confirmation dress, all white sateen and lace, blond pigtails. I can't turn away. I can't close my eyes. I can't do anything but watch, absorb the information, and try desperately to remind myself of who I am.  
  
I am Sydney Bristow. I am going to kill this bastard. But without the amphetamines the rage is hard to find.  
  
"You lost your family in a fire. You were the only survivor. Your first targets were the men who destroyed your family." Vengeance strikes a chord. Vengeance I can comprehend, more and more so every day. He sees it in my face, and I see triumph dawning in his.  
  
"You became a contract killer. You showed no pity. Your first targets were the men who destroyed your family. Julia will eat well. Live well."  
  
*  
  
This time I feel a hard mattress under my back. I smile. He thinks he has me. Completely, now. He thinks his work is almost done.  
  
What he doesn't know will kill him. Someday. I have become an expert in patience, in that agonizing length of time between seeing something I want and reaching out to grab it.  
  
My head hurts more than by body. I listen for guards. Hearing none, I let myself fade back out.  
  
*  
  
There is a plastic mirror above a plastic basin of water. My hair is blond. I comb some of the knots out with my fingers. I splash my face with water and watch the drops course down my gaunt cheeks, slide over my lips. Aside from the blond hair and dark circles under my eyes, I see my mother in the mirror. Hard angles, all the softness scraped away. I am just as bruised as I thought. Dark blue marks cross my upper arms from the chair. Finger sized imprints above my collarbone and at the base of my neck. Doubtless there are more but I don't bother looking for them.  
  
I bring my fingers to my lips, feel their give. The only generous part of my body.  
  
Who am I? I am not Julia, but I've come so much further than I thought Sydney ever could. Another voice asks if it even matters. I stumble back to the mattress on the floor. I readjust the same stale pillow under my head and close my eyes.  
  
* 


	5. Halfway There

Chapter 5: Beginnings  
  
*  
  
The door opens. For the first time I don't have to close my eyes against the light. My new cell is illuminated by a flourescent tube shielded behind thick steel mesh too high for me to even reach.  
  
"Good morning, Julia."  
  
Oleg steps in, carrying a tray with rye toast and scrambled eggs. I salivate in anticipation. He hands me the tray. There is no silverware, which could after all be used as weaponry. It is a reminder of my intermediate designation.  
  
"After breakfast, I thought you might enjoy a shower. Just knock on the door when you're ready. The guards will take you."  
  
"Thank you," I smile up at him politely, but without warmth. He turns and leaves. The metal door swings shut behind him and I hear the lock slide into place.  
  
When he is gone I devour the meal, and lick the plate clean of butter and egg yolk.  
  
*  
  
I am taken to a room with pale green tile and a two-way mirror along one wall. The shower head drops straight down from the far corner. A shelf in the tile holds soap and a washcloth. By the door is a single towel.  
  
I know they are watching from behind the mirror.  
  
The shirt comes off first, pants next, and I leave them in a pile on the floor. Julia is not ashamed of her body. And I could care less who sees me naked if it means a few minutes under hot water.  
  
I turn the dial and it hits me cold, warming up slowly until the room steams. The soap smells like lavender and green tea. I breath deeply. The lavender is at once soothing and invigorating. I lather the washcloth with soap and rub my skin clean of dirt and sweat. I lather my hair. Then I just stand under the spray, face up, relishing the heat.  
  
I am warm and clean and full.  
  
*  
  
"Julia is who you are. Julia will live well, eat well."  
  
His voice drones on and on through the headphones, calming, almost hypnotic.  
  
"Her sexuality is another weapon in her arsenal. She enjoys physical pleasure: fine food, expensive clothing, attractive men and women. Julia forms no emotional bonds. After losing her family, Julia will never love again. She cares only about herself. Julia is loyal to the highest bidder, and the Covenant pay her extremely well. Julia kills without mercy, has no qualms about interrogation. Julia is who you are."  
  
Julia is a ruthless mercenary with a thin topcoat of sophistication and beauty. I can be ruthless, like her. I can kill in cold blood to save myself.  
  
*  
  
I wonder what she would think of me: Laura Bristow, Irina Derevko. I followed in the footsteps of the former, only to become the latter.  
  
There is no going back. I will never again be who I was.  
  
*  
  
I only think about them at night, after all the lights have been turned off. I push my face into the pillow, and dredge up all the memories. Danny, Will, Francie, Vaughn, my father, even those happy recollections of my mother before I learned I was raised by a mirage.  
  
I dig for tears. The ache grows smaller. More often than not, my eyes stay dry.  
  
*  
  
Julia's normal life was interrupted by a singular event: the death of her family in fire. That drove her to vengeance, and to this life. An ironic choice of history, considering my odyssey was also forged in fire. The world declared me dead when my apartment burned down. And the Covenant molded me in the crucible of torture and deprivation.  
  
What started me down this path? I can't fix on a particular instant where turning left instead of right would have saved me this pain. Every choice I have made has deflected my trajectory a degree further from normal.  
  
But even before I made those choices, I feel like this fate was inescapable. A KGB mother, a CIA father, and a tangled web of lies and loyalties played by a thousand separate puppeteers.  
  
The situation is largely out of my control. Perhaps Julia is right to care only about herself. Her loyalty is true: unaffected by the shifting alliances of her employers, or the needs and wants of family, and lovers, and friends.  
  
* 


	6. Privilege

Chapter 6: Privilege  
  
*  
  
Soft gray wool sweater, well-made black slacks, and sturdy leather shoes. I write in the notebook Oleg gave me. Factual reports of my physical training progress, studies of security systems that have come on the market since I was brought into their custody.  
  
"Julia."  
  
I close the book and push it to the side.  
  
"Lunch."  
  
He places the tray in front of me and lifts away to cover. A generous piece of chicken, peas, mashed potatoes and gravy. The corners of my mouth twist up in something that could be either a smile or a smirk. This is the meal they taunted me with for so long.  
  
*  
  
I have a new cell. There is a bathroom, and a dresser next to the bed, and a narrow wardrobe full of dark slacks and crisp shirts. The pillow on the bed is soft and clean. I have a lamp, and an overhead light controlled by a lightswitch just to the right of the door as I enter.  
  
Two guards are posted outside the door, which locks only from the outside. But late at night if I get hungry, they will bring me yogurt or saltines from the kitchen.  
  
A Josef Albers print hangs on the wall above the bed: concentric squares of blue, midnight, black in the center. It smolders darkly: infinitely structured but revealing nothing. I am that blackness wrapped inside myself. I am vengeance behind innocence, under the mask of a mercenary.  
  
*  
  
My arms are getting stronger. My endurance is returning, slowly. I spend hours with the trainer: lifting, running, sparring. He pulls his punches and slows his responses for me. He catches me by surprise, flips me easily. I take a lot of falls. Starvation burned away my fat, my former life, and muscle mass as well. I crave protein. I'm running full tilt to catch up to myself.  
  
*  
  
An animal will gnaw off its own limb to escape a snare. A human waits silently, plottingly, sullenly, for her captor to return, and then attacks.  
  
*  
  
I dream of fire so hot it burns blue, as light and as clear as the finest sapphire. An acetylene torch, in my hands. And to the flame I hold a picture of myself. Sometimes my hair is brown, and sometimes it is blond. I smile as it burns.  
  
I lurch into consciousness, sweaty but cold.  
  
* 


	7. The Test

A/N: Thanks to Cruzstar and Ori1 and everyone else who reviewed. Reviews make me write faster! This is just my second fanfic so please tell me where I can improve.  
  
Chapter 7: The Test  
  
*  
  
"May I present to you Julia Thorne."  
  
I walk in from the side, stare at the panel unflinchingly. There is no reason to put a smile on my face.  
  
"Welcome, Miss Thorne. The work you'll be doing for us requires a certain commitment."  
  
The man in charge speaks: impeccably dressed, with an authorative voice like forged steel. Another sound reaches me. A man is wheeled into the room, strapped down to a wheelchair, with a strip of duct tape across his mouth.  
  
"Of course."  
  
"Who this man is, is not important. What is important is the knife on the table. Use it. Kill this unimportant man."  
  
This is murder. There is no excuse for this. He is utterly defenseless, helpless. He has done nothing to me. His enemy is my enemy, and therefore we must be friends. I cannot kill him like this. This is wrong.  
  
He is pathetic, pleading for his life, begging for another chance. His own actions landed him in that chair. I am simply the executioner.  
  
The knife was sharp. One sharp jab to the heart and his pleading stopped. I traded a man's life for my own. Had I refused to kill him, they would simply have executed both of us. Or sent me back to Oleg, to start over from the beginning. I did what I had to do.  
  
"Very good, Miss Thorne. That's all we'll need."  
  
I put the bloody knife back on the table, and walked out of the room.  
  
*  
  
My apartment in St. Petersburg consists of a bedroom, a kitchen, a living room, and a bathroom. The walls are dark, the floors a rich wood parquet, with granite in the kitchen and bathroom. The closet is full of beautiful fabrics and colors. I run my hand along the hanging garments: Shantung silk, cashmere, Egyptian cotton, beaded satin, washed denim. There are elegant fur wraps and thick wool coats to fight the frigid air. All of this is mine.  
  
*  
  
I thought about contacting the CIA. Then I thought very hard about not contacting the CIA. I thought about living as Julia, and I thought about running away as someone else entirely.  
  
*  
  
I let him lead me out of the club with an arm around my waist because he was the only man brave enough to approach me. Broad shoulders, dark hair, confident gait. Afterwards, as we sprawled out on the hotel bed, his hands traced over my body, and stopped at my stomach.  
  
"How did you get this scar?"  
  
"Surgery. Appendicitis. I was very young."  
  
He moved to kiss it, tenderly. And that was when I knew I wanted to leave. I was not looking for kindness. I was simply craved human contact after months of incarceration.  
  
"I should go. I have to get up early for work."  
  
The lies rolled off my tongue without thought, as easily as the words came in Russian.  
  
"Stay with me. Please."  
  
"No, I can't."  
  
"At least give me your number."  
  
I scribbled down a false number and stepped back into the red silk dress that lay crumpled on the floor. I hailed a cab, and was back at my apartment in minutes.  
  
The sheets were slick, cool cotton, and the high loft down pillow cradled my head perfectly. As soon as I closed my eyes, I fell into a dreamless sleep.  
  
*  
  
I relish the feel of wind on my face, biting and harsh. My face stiffens from the cold, and when I finally duck into a café it's hard to form my lips around the words. The sky is bright and gray. Inside the air is smoky and thick. I look at the paper as I sip my coffee: black and bitter. Until they call me, I will enjoy the illusion of freedom.  
  
* 


End file.
